


my heart still beats, my skin still feels

by alchemystique



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: Jon and Daenerys contemplate each other. Spoilers through 6x06





	my heart still beats, my skin still feels

There is something curious about this Jon Snow. She’d thought as much the first time she laid eyes on him - smaller than she expected, lean where she had imagined girth, short where she expected a great hulking tree of a man, prettier than most the men she’s ever seen. **  
**

They called him King in the North, and Daenerys had expected broad shoulders and a mean face, a man who might tower over her in an attempt to frighten her, someone with hard eyes and a hard face.

Jon Snow has so far defied all her expectations. 

He _shouldn’t_ surprise her, considering the legions of men who follow Daenerys Stormborn wherever she takes them - across barren seas of sand, into battle against rich and powerful men, across an ocean most had always thought an insurmountable obstacle. She is a tiny thing, really, in the scope of the world, with delicate features and a face that, when she looks upon it, has not aged in accordance with her experiences. And yet, men follow her still, look upon her with both awe and terror - respect, even, and as she begins to know Jon Snow she begins to understand the perspective of all those who have bent their heads in deference to her.

He is a good man, with a kind heart, and he cares for his people more than his own life.

It is an inconvenient revelation for her. She finds herself catching his gaze as it darts away from her; finds herself hiding a smile as he comes to stand beside her in his heavy furs and cloak seemingly unaware of the different climate or perhaps merely unwilling to look less a northerner; and sucking in a deep breath as his hand curls over her forearm and he _dares_ to guide her along in the direction he’d like her to go. And when Tyrion’s brilliant mind fails her, when she has lost and she cannot see a way forward, it is Jon Snow’s council she seeks out, it is his soft and low voice; the humble shock in his eyes as she asks what he would have her do; the way he does not stumble over his harsh words; the way he questions her concern for the people even as he reminds her of her desire to do good, to be better, to change the way this world works. 

They call him King in the North, and sometimes, Daenerys wonders if perhaps it is a lucky thing this man is a bastard who will likely give his life in this fight of his - surely if he were a trueborn son all of Westeros would be in his grasp by now.

\------

He thinks of Stannis, the cool, harsh Stannis Baratheon, as he is escorted to his audience with the Dragon Queen - and as he looks upon her for the first time, he imagines Stannis sitting on this opulent throne, imagines the starkness of his face, and is immediately certain Stannis never sat where she now sits. It should be absurd, the picture of this young woman with her stern expression and steel back, silver hair gleaming against the stone behind her, but he stops short at the sight of it, of her, and even as her titles rattle off the walls around them he finds himself watching her.

It is no surprise he finds himself immediately at odds with her - he had expected as much when he agreed to this meeting - and yet he is disappointed too. Disappointed in himself for rising to her challenges, disappointed in her for refusing to listen to his words. 

It makes no sense, at first, this rolling anger beneath his skin, the sharp ache of annoyance as they go toe to toe and she does not pay heed to his warning - she is a queen, just like any other, and he has never had much time for royalty, for the expectation of fealty, for monarchs so enamored with their own power they forget who they serve.

As he grows to know her better, pushed and shoved in that direction by his advisors and her own, he begins to understand why he’d taken so poorly to her reticence at first. He saw something of himself in her - this woman who triumphed over so much strife, who rose to conquer cities and earn the love of her people - he’d wanted her to believe him. He’d seen her dragons, her stature, seen the way that the Dothraki held themselves back at her silent command, heard the pride in the voices of those happy to serve her, and he’d hoped she might believe him.

The following days and weeks become difficult - he is a prisoner here, and despite the freedoms he is given he paces and he stares out into the vastness of the horizon and he wonders how he can convince the dragon queen of one more fantastical thing. 

It feels a bit like fate to find the carvings amidst the dragonglass, and as he leads her through the tunnels, his sense of determination stems as much from his hope to find level footing with this woman as it is to show her further proof of his claims. 

“ _I’ve seen you staring at her good heart_ ,” Davos had said, as much a warning as a gentle ribbing, and at the time Jon’s response had felt like enough, but now he watches her as she takes in the stories of the Children of the Forest and he knows he is well and truly fucked. _No time for that_ , he lies, even as he thinks of the jut of her chin and the fire in her eyes.

He’s known strong women before. Plenty of them, from the time he could remember knowing a difference between men and women. The hardness of Catelyn Stark had never stopped him from acknowledging the strength of her love for her children, from understanding how far she’d go for her family. Sansa, a girl who’d longed for pretty dresses and a handsome prince, had been through hell and back and come out the other side to fight the same fight her mother had - resilient and fierce, clever and brave. And Arya - he had to hope she was out there somewhere, too stubborn to die, too fearsome to let the world defeat her. Even Gilly had left an impression on him - she’d beaten the lot she’d been given in life, and fought to be more than she was. Brienne of Tarth, and the Wildling women he knew, even Cersei, much as he hated her - all these women had proven time and again they had the grit to defeat the roles they’d been gifted by unforgiving gods. 

He tries not to think too hard on Ygritte, but her memory comes to him too, and he wonders what she’d say, how she’d laugh to know Jon Snow has found himself once again in the orbit of a woman with as much stubborn conviction as he. She’d hate him for it, he’s sure. 

Daenerys is a woman apart from those he’s known before, and he cannot let himself wonder why. Even as he thinks on her, there are things more important that should occupy his mind, things he forces himself to remember - the terror of seeing the dead rise, the dread of knowing how few men there truly are to fight this war, the knowledge that he will most likely fail without the help of this woman. The North will fall, and the rest of Westeros after it, and the nothingness of death will fall upon them all. 

There in that cave, guiding Daenerys by her arm, the firelight bouncing off stone walls, he thinks of Ygritte again, of her boldness and the way she’d shuddered and fallen apart in his arms. Of the way he’d felt alive, truly, blissfully alive and free, even though it was all a sham, a lie to secure the safety of the Wall. 

He feels it again standing with Daenerys. Since he’d come back, he’d fought only out of duty, fought because it was the only thing he knew he could do well - but as she spits his own words back at him and holds his gaze, a fire blazes under his skin, and for a moment he forgets the lords of the North, he forgets the cold blackness beyond life, and he wants to _live_.

She begs his advice outside that cave and despite the antagonistic nature of their relationship he offers his frank opinion. It is not to stop her from destroying cities or burning the people of Westeros, it is not because they will need every able body to defeat the coming storm.

He tells her not to attack the people because he needs her to be better than that: a fair leader, a good woman. Because he trusts in the kindness of her heart.

_No time for that_ , he tells himself, while her men assist in the mining of dragonglass and she rides off to battle. _There’s no time for that_ , he repeats in the back of his mind as he stands atop the cliffs, watching a beast out of Nan’s horror stories soar above him. 

_No time for that_ , and his hand shakes as he pulls it free from it’s glove, and strokes his fingers over thick scales, his breath coming out in short puffs, overwhelmed by all of it, unsure what had overcome him, what desperate need had made him reach out to touch.

_No time._

\------

He is steady as he reaches toward Drogon, and through the shock of seeing anyone dare come so close to one of her children (Tyrion, Tyrion had done it, she remembered, but Tyrion was a brave drunken fool, Tyrion held her respect, her trust most days, and here was another brave fool). She finds herself drawn to the sight - her blood racing, heart hammering, she cranes to take in what is happening below her.

She has never felt the need to share this experience with another - never thought anyone would _try_ , but as she dismounts and Drogon takes flight again, she looks upon Jon Snow and tries to hide the eagerness in her voice to hear his thoughts on the experience.

Her mind wanders then to other experiences shared between them, things that have set them apart from the rest of this world. Yet he plays down the words spoken in the heat of the moment, and she hides her disappointment, unwilling to truly examine why she yearns to uncover the mysteries of this northern bastard who holds the claim for a large part of her kingdom.

She could just as easily have him executed - burn him in dragon fire as she had those southron men who refused to bend the knee, order his head taken from his neck like his father’s had before him.

And yet.

He had come to her in peace, has shown her respect and even at times patience and understanding. He has been humble, though certainly not deferential, fiercely protective of his people - he wanted nothing more than the support of her armies and the protection of the people she meant to one day lead.

He had stood before Drogon, the fiercest of her children, and Drogon had seen no artifice in Jon Snow.

Shaken as she is by that realization, it rattles her calm, makes her stare at him longer and harder, makes her notice how much she’s grown to respect him, this man who refuses to bend the knee and desires her help all the same.

And then Jorah is returned to her, and in that blaze of happiness she forgets herself for a moment, lets emotion slip past her mask

His hands tremble when he reads the letter sent from Winterfell, and in that moment he is entirely too _human_ for her: breakable, easily killed. She has to swallow so her voice does not waver as she reminds him of his place, but they both know she will do nothing to stop him. 

The entire room knows it.

Daenerys has never felt more powerless, and she hates him for it, hates Jorah Mormont and Jon Snow, hates Tyrion Lannister and the Red Priestess for ever suggesting an alliance with the North could be beneficial.

She hates them all, for their bravery, for their council, for the weakness they all share in their desire to serve the realm - for earning her respect even when she meant not to give it.

And still, her crisp nod is enough to send them all down a path she is not certain they can return from.

\------

It’s a fool plan, and he knows it long before it all goes wrong, but it’s all they’ve got, and even as he sends Gendry back towards Eastwatch he wonders if there hadn’t been a better plan. If he’d waited a bit longer, spent more time with Dany, might he have convinced her to bring a dragon to begin with?

That’s what he’s asking of her now, isn’t it? Time is not on their side, and no matter how much he might like her she’s no warrior. But she alone controls the greatest weapon in all their arsenals, and she alone might be able to get them out of this foolhardy mess. 

He’d seen the way she looked at him, the way she’d held back as they said their goodbyes, and he’s no great judge of women’s desires, but something tells him she will come. For the realm. For Jorah Mormont. 

If he adds his own name to the list, no one else has to know about it.

When she does come, in a fiery blaze of glory, he knows Tormund is right. For so long he’s known only terrible rulers, or dead ones, and here now in the desolate north, surrounded on all sides by creatures of death, Daenerys Targaryen has come - no doubt against the wishes of her advisors, no doubt against her own sense. She’s as recklessly foolish as he is, and as he watches her astride the great beast, burning the dead to ash, he feels a kinship stronger than any before it.

At least, as it all goes to shit, and he plunges into the ice, towards the same watery grave as one of her dragons, he can be certain she will continue this fight without him.

\------

The loss of Viserion sits heavily upon her, and so she tries not to think of it.

It’s an easier task than she might have expected, the grief shoved aside in favor of her worry for the man she’s already risked far too much for. He is pale, his breathing not quite steady, his eyes closed in slumber as Ser Davos buries him in furs and orders men about. She’s seen the scars, knows without having to question it just what has happened to him - the pieces coming together as her mind races - Davos’ words about what he’s sacrificed for his people, the appearance of the Red Priestess and her conviction that Jon Snow was important in this war, the bordering on suicidal nature of the way he fights. 

_Jon Snow’s not in love with me_ , she’d told Tyrion, more to convince herself than anything else, but she’d seen the way he’d looked at her after Viserion fell, seen the set of his shoulders as he turned toward the Night King, heard the tremor in his voice as he called for her to leave. 

When all is settled and the man shuffle past her out the door, when only Davos remains, staring down at the king he’s chosen, eyeing the rise of fall of his chest beneath the furs, she takes another step into the room. Ser Davos seems only then to realize she is there, and he startles. 

“Your Grace,” he says, and she fights the quirk of her lip at the tone of it, a gentle chiding in his voice even as he dips his head towards her. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but he needs rest.”

Daenerys swallows, nods, and takes another step into the room. “I won’t wake him, Ser Davos.”

The man opens his mouth, shakes his head and closes it. When she glances up at him, his expression nearly gets a laugh out of her, and she can imagine inside his head are nothing but thoughts of the stubbornness of those he has surrounded himself with. If he knew her better, she has no doubt he’d make those thoughts known, but he slides around her instead, and she listens to the heavy footfalls as he moves down the hall.

In the quiet, Jon’s breathing sounds ragged and shaky, and she takes three steps closer to the edge of the bed before she’s even realized it.

There is something about Jon that makes her forget herself, and even if it’s only for a moment, it is something she has not experienced in a long time. Through everything that has happened in the last few years, she has held herself stern and unyielding, concealing every thought that crosses her mind and every emotion felt - the sadness, the anger, the heartache - until she worried she’d lost the ability to feel those things entirely.

Now, she looks at this man, this man who has died and come back to fight for his people, this man who has spent months now listening to her demand his fealty in return for her help and still found the nerve to ask her to come for his party beyond the wall. 

He’s a fool. A brave, honorable fool, and her heart aches to think she nearly lost him too.

When he wakes, she is by his side, alternating her gaze between the pinch of his brow, his face solemn even in sleep, and the curl of his hand by the edge of the bed; so close she could reach out and grasp it. 

And then he speaks, the first words out of his mouth not a thank you, or anything pertaining to the Night King or his own near miss with death.

No, it is an apology. An apology for the mission they undertook, and the loss it caused, and even as her eyes well with tears he reaches for her hand, earnest and true, likely to the very bitter end. 

She wants so very desperately in that moment to allow herself this comfort, to curl her fingers into his palm and stay there with him, to cry the tears she has yet to shed, to let him see her, beneath the masks and the steel and the fire of her eyes. 

But she cannot. She has suffered a loss not only for herself, but for her people as well, in this battle she had not truly believed in until the moment Viserion fell. If she allows herself the comfort of the promise in his eyes when he looks upon her, she will not be strong enough to face the coming storm. 

When she pulls her hand away and tucks it into her lap she grasps it beneath the one he’d held. It is a poor substitute.

\------

“ _Do you understand?_ ”

He doesn’t know why it sticks out to him, why, as he thinks on her (and gods does he spend far too much time stuck in this _fucking_ bed thinking on her) the admission is what he goes back to. Her promise to fight with him, the way she’d stared at their clasped hands, the very fact that she’d allowed herself to break down in front of him, even for a moment - all of that he spends less time contemplating than he does those words.

He’s spent enough time on them to know they didn’t come from a desire to make him feel guilty - she hadn’t said them in order to gain pity, and as he turns them over and over again, there’s truly only one reason that comes to mind.

Years ago, it might have been a blessing, hearing those words from a woman he thought of the way he thought of Daenerys. His greatest fear with Ygritte hadn’t been of breaking his vows but of putting a bastard in her, forcing another child to grow up in an already shit world with that word a burden on it’s shoulders. 

He was a bastard boy, with no land to inherit, no room to become a great man like his father, and so he’d gone to the Night’s Watch, where at least he could be and honorable man. Benjen had told him he didn’t know what it meant, to give up the chance for a family, and he’d scoffed and thrown it aside, ready to devote himself to something that meant a _damn_ thing. 

Since Ygritte, he’d not thought on it, too busy to even contemplate such a thing. Until Daenerys. Until he looked at her and saw the fire in her eyes, the fierce loyalty she commanded, the desire she carried within her heart to truly help the people of this land. Until Jorah had told him to pass Longclaw down through the generations of his kin.

He’d thought on it then - a babe in his arms, a child to teach to fight, to love, to stand fierce and tall and brave against a world that would always try to drag them down. A girl or boy to hold close to his heart, who could carry on a legacy of their own making. 

It doesn’t matter.

When she curls her fingers around his, and whispers the hope that he is right about her, when she holds his steady gaze and tells him to rest, already drawing back into herself, it doesn’t matter.

He will fight for her, with her, until his very last breath, and he will admire her in whatever way she will allow. He’ll stand by her side against the coming storm, and he will not let it matter. Her legacy will outlive her, children or no. He won’t allow any other possibility.


End file.
